The Circus Murders
by iswiminrain
Summary: Ms. Paltrow, a renowned circus performer, shows up at Baker Street covered in blood after coming upon the scene of a murder. It's up to Holmes to investigate the scene and try to fit the pieces together, though the deeper he digs, the stranger it gets.
1. Blood tells its stories

Of the horrific case of the circus murders, I have had rare occasion to speak of due to the disturbing nature of the details, yet alone write about. It was a thing that challenged Holmes himself, and as we were thrown headfirst into the whole predicament, I had no chance to bargain with him for a more sane and reasonable mystery to occupy our time.

On the day that Ms. Paltrow showed up at 221B Baker Street, washed to the elbows in blood, Holmes was wearing a drab dressing gown and smoking beside the fireplace. He had developed a terrible, wracking cough (smoker's cough indeed) and I shuddered for him as I idly flipped through the morning paper.

"The fog is worse today than yesterday," muttered Holmes. His fingers tapped relentlessly against the arm of his chair.

"You must be patient." I said, with the air of one remonstrating a small child. "It may clear by this afternoon."

"And pray, what would I do then? There's nothing to be done, even if the fog were to evepaorate like so much smoke..." Here he gestured emphatically to the fumes he was blowing out of his mouth with a sardonic espression on his thin lips.

"Go for a walk, perhaps. You could-"

"Pah. I think Brother Mycroft is due a visit at the Diogenes," said Holmes, getting to his feet. "I believe he had some unimportant business to discuss with me."

"By all means." I gestured empthatically at the door. "Don't keep him waiting."

He crossed to the window to look out upon the raucous cabs clacking over the street. "Hello there," he whispered. "Turn left, if you would. Aha!"

The knock came at the door then, softly at first and then with more conviction. Mrs. Hudson darted past Holmes, who was again seated in his velvet lined chair, as though the force of the knocking had swept him off his feet as surely as a gale of wind.

I daresay there was an expression of hope and expectancy on my dearest friend's features. I believe only I could have read it there, for I knew the slight raise of the eyebrows and the small quirking of his lips meant that he was in a state of suppressed excitement.

"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson uttered from the entranceway, and I could tell it took every last ounce of Holmes' reserve to stay seated and not go running out to greet our visitor.

"Holmes, you had better come here!" Said Mrs. Hudson, her voice an octave higher in her distress. "There's a lady here, there's a lady here to...Watson, come along too!"

I was on my feet in an instant, but still slower than Holmes, who reached the doorway in about three seconds and then stopped so suddenly that I almost collided into the back of his dressing gown.

As I have noted earlier, the woman standing in our modest rooms was covered up to the elbows in drying blood with splashes of the same across the front of her blouse. She was crying softly to herself, holding her arms away from her body as though she could not stand for them touching her sides.

Holmes moved aside so that I could take stock of our visitor. "Mr. Holmes, please help me," she whispered. A curl of blond hair obscured her left eye as she bent her head in shame.

"I am a doctor," I said succinctly, wishing very much that I had my medical bag within arm's reach. "Where have you been wounded? We must see to that first."

"I'm not harmed."

Indeed, I could not see a wound on her regardless of the blood.

"Ms. Paltrow," murmured Holmes from behind me.

"You know her?" I turned violently to peer at Holmes, wondering if there was no end to his maddening store house of information gleamed from sources unknown.

"Mrs. Hudson, fetch our dear visitor a shot of brandy and a moist towel." He commanded our harried land lady, who assented with a nod and then was off at a trot, her face blanched and troubled.

"My dear lady, pray come inside! And waste no time. Here, please sit yourself here. Do not be mindful of making a wreck of the sofa. You are not the first soul to leave any quantity of blood upon it."

She had stopped crying, but there was a slackness to her elegant features that I did not like one bit. My medical instincts sang out that this was a look of shock, and that our Ms. Paltrow would soon shut up as surely as the most tenacious of clams should we not do something to counter this.

I sprang to my feet and dashed into my bedroom, my wounded knee giving a twinge of protest at the sudden activity. I seized from the closet an old sheet that I no longer used and returned to the living room to drape it around the lady's shoulders. Sherlock Holmes was bending down before her, holding the glass of brandy to her quivering lips, though she only shook her head and shivered violently.

"Come now, my dear," murmured our land lady, washing the blood from her arms with a towel. She laid a hand on Holmes' tightly coiled forearm and gave him a slight push to the side.

"This may well be a matter in which we currently have no place, old boy," he murmured, as our landlady cleaned and then stroked our client's arms.

Tears oozed silently from beneath our visitor's drooping lids and she gave a violent gasp, such as a swimmer surfacing from deep water, followed by a sob. Sherlock Holmes looked silently at his hands, folded in his lap.

I gave silent thanks that our strange visitor was coming back to herself.

"How did you know my name?" Her eyes, which I now noticed were a queer colour, almost violet, focused suddenly on Sherlock Holmes, whose nerve shot fingers were now steepled lightly beneath his chin.

"I am an admirer, that is all."

"How...you've seen me perform?" She asked. There was a splotch of blood on her forehead and she touched it gently with her fingertip and then shuddered violently and went white to the lips again.

"Dear, dear," clucked Mrs. Hudson, and began to rub the cloth over her face and eyelids. The peculiar violet eyes closed and then reopened, red veined but alert.

"Indeed. I should count you as one of the most fantastic acrobatic performers in all of London."

"Would you care to lay down?" I interjected.

"No...no, I should think I am quiet comfortable enough." Her violet eyes roamed freely around our lodgings. She laughed, an hysterical, high pitched, note. "It's exactly as I imagined it from his stories," she cried out.

Conscious of her eyes upon me, I followed Holmes' suit and looked at my hands curled in my own lap.

"Shall I leave you?" Asked our landlady.

"No, do stay," cried Holmes, more abruptly than was perhaps necessary. "You do, I would say, have a touch of a nurse's able bodied hands in you."

He turned his face to our visitor.

"You've come from the Thames district, at a hurry, there is blood on you, not your blood though. Please do tell what causes a lady such so distinguished as yourself to end up in our humble lodgings under such circumstances."

"They're dead..." She looked earnestly at my companion. "My friends, my fellow performers. I was at the docks, that's where Robbie, one of the other performers lives. Every Saturday we like to gather together before the show, a sort of routine we've had as long as I can remember. Only today when I got there, Robbie was..." She swallowed hard, and we waited.

"Dead. And so was Kimmy. Both of them, lying in a pool of blood. Shot. Mr. Holmes, I don't understand!"

"That is very upsetting," murmured Holmes. "Do continue."

"Oh, it was! I...I don't know what got into my head, but I found myself on my knees next to them, taking their pulses, trying to determine if they were alive, even though I knew they couldn't be. There was no chance anyone could lose so much blood and survive. Hence, the blood all over my blouse."

"How terrible," I murmured, wondering if it would be unpolite of me to offer any physical gesture of companionship, such as a pat on her arm. But our good landlady was standing right beside her chair, gently stroking her hair.

Holmes was leaning forward and surveying our visitor with an abundance of interest.

"Pray tell, what else do you remember?" When she did not answer straight away he cried out, "take your time. Details are of the utmost importance."

"They were so white. Vampiric, I suppose. Like the belly of a fish. An unnatural white that comes from losing so much blood. They were both shot through the chest, sir. I can't..." She began to choke over her words. "The pain of that, it must have been awful."

Her lips began to quiver again and I feared for a fresh downpour of tears.

Sherlock Holmes waited patiently for her to compose herself. "It is fortunate that you have not been yet to see Scotland Yard."

"But how...how did you know?" Ms. Paltrow's expression of pure astonishment was one I had often worn over the years.

"Blood tells its lurid stories," answered Holmes. "I have written several of my own monographs on the very subject of blood spatter and analysis. The blood on your blouse is not entirely dry and tells me you have come here straight from the docks. Also, had you consulted Scotland Yard, you would have come down Baker Street from the opposite direction."

"It's simple when you explain it that way."

I felt a sudden comradirie with our strange visitor. "It always is," I said wistfully.

"What is the address?" Enquired Holmes.

"Number 302. It's a cottage by the docks, across from Patrick's Bar."

Holmes rose from his chair and stretched out his long limbs. "Watson, grab your service revolver from your desk and we will be on our way."

Ms. Paltrow rose from the sofa, her features still palid and sickly, her eyes suddenly alight. "I should like to come along."

"No, no," Holmes said sharply, "You stay here. Would you be so kind as to get our client a cup of hot tea, Mrs. Hudson?"

I rushed to my desk and withdrew the revolver, which had not seen much action of late. At the door, Holmes put on his top hat, then dramatically took it off again, tipping it to Ms. Paltrow, who in turn blushed red to the roots of her blond hair. He stared at her for a moment with such absolute absorption that I would have ventured to call it attraction had I not known his feelings towards the fairer sex.

When he had shut the door, he turned to peer back at the apartment for a beat. "This whole thing is beyond queer. Have you your notepad? This may be one for your chronicles."

"I have it here."

"Excellent." He rubbed his hands together.

We climbed into a hansom and clattered off towards the docks. "The fog is beginning to clear," remarked Holmes, though I was uncertain if he referred to the actual cursed smog surrounding London or the mystery of the dead circus performers. I was glad to see his mood lifting either way.

"Not that there is anything to do when it does," I remarked sardonically, patting his knee, thinking of his earlier comment.

"Oh, there is plenty to do now. Though I fear it will all end in more tears and hysterics than I can entertain."

I didn't know what to say.

"You are attracted to Ms. Paltrow," I remarked after a beat.

"Eh, Watson?" The look he gave me in return was so sharp and startled I had to laugh.

"She is a puzzle, waiting to be solved. That attracts you strongly. The longing was plain on your face before she even walked in the door."

"It would not spring for attraction as my choice of words. She is helping me to escape boredom. And cocaine. Nothing of her physical attributes is a draw to me."

"You don't contradict an attraction though?"

"Violently, old fellow." His eyes sparkled with mirth. "If I don't you will have me as Ms. Paltrow's gentleman lover in your next feature story. As it stands, you have bungled the telling of the Irene Adler affair, by indicating by she was the woman for me."

"She was."

"She was not."

"Her picture is in your desk drawer."

He turned to face me with carefully concealed surprise. "Which is locked."

"And I live with the world's greatest consulting detetctive. I know a few things about observation."

We had, by this point reached our destination. Holmes leapt from the carriage, a tightly coiled bundle of unsuppressed energy, and paid our driver. My heart beat faster and heavier in my chest, for I felt ahead lay ominous waters.


	2. Chasing Ghosts

I felt a shiver caress my spine as we approached the desolate cottage. I wondered if it were just my imagination or if the air had actually dropped several degrees and become frigid. I imagined the ghost of one of the dead performers within, waiting for the chance to point an accusing finger at her murderer.

I followed Holmes down the flagstone path, wondering if it was possible to know a crime had been committed in a place by the very energy that surrounded it, before one should even peep through a foggy window or keyhole into the horror that lay silently lurking within. I wondered if Holmes felt the presence of evil here as strongly as I did.

By the tense set of his shoulders, I thought it was just possible.

He threw up an arm to stop me, and bade that I continue no further. He strode back and forth down the flagstone path leading up to the cottage three times, occasionally crouching down to examine one of the stones. He then carefully examined the door and lock, and shook his head, frowning. At last, he motioned for me to join him near the door.

I shivered violently, thinking of the dead.

"Balderdash!" He cried, startling me. "No ghosts need apply, dear fellow."

"My God, how did you read my thoughts?" I knew, of course, that he had somehow, miraculously deduced it from a quirk of my eyebrow.

"One who does not wish to have their thoughts so openly read should not leave their journals lying around for casual inspection," he said dryly.

"You read it, then?"

"Of course I did. I was bored."

"You read my journal. My personal journal, meant for my eyes only. That says very boldly on the front of it Dr. John H. Watson, and says on the very second page, Holmes keep out?"

"Naturally. To quote the second page, paragraph 2. The dead woman lay on the floor of the foyer in a wash of her own wet blood. She had died a mere hour before Holmes and myself arrived on the scene, though she still present. A chill caused the hairs on my arms to prick as I entertained the thought that some ghost of herself lingered as Holmes anxiously went about searching the lengthening shadows."

"You're impossible," I sighed.

"I am improbable. If I were impossible, I would not exist."

At this declaration, he wrenched open the door and ducked inside and I momentarily held my breath. My view of the inside of the cottage was mercifully blocked by my friend's long, slender back for an instant. He stood very still, surveying every minute detail of the scene.

Sherlock Holmes, the blood hound, the crime King, was on the case. Death always stopped my heart, though Sherlock Holmes seemed to draw a positive energy from it. For him, it was a problem to focus upon and solve, a puzzle with pieces to be snapped together. I had once ventured to ask what profession he would have chosen if not for world's first consulting detective. "Nothing good," he had answered, between puffs of smoke. I shuddered to think what should happen if he turned his formidable brain to the creation of the crimes he so delighted in solving. I had no doubt he could create an unsolvable murder.

Finally, he crouched to the ground and I had my first view of the scene.

They were both dead, laying on their sides in a pool of blood that spanned about three feet in diameter. Ms. Paltrow had neglected to tell us that Robbie was a little over three feet tall, a dwarfish man with flaming red hair and pince nez. Kimmy had a coarse, black beard and lay with her glazed eyes staring at our boots.

"What do you notice, Watson?"

"The obvious. Nothing has been stolen. Nothing disturbed. The man, Robbie, is a dwarf, and Kimmy is a bearded woman."

"And?"

"And the door has not been forced."

"Come man, you have missed the most important thing!"

His knees creaked as he stood, and he rubbed them with a look of both annoyance towards my slower wits and for the infirmities of aging. It occurred to me suddenly that we were not as nimble as we used to be. He turned to me expectantly, a pistol laying flat in the palm of his hand, wrapped in a cloth he'd brought along.

"It's as I feared," murmured Holmes, turning on his heel and heading for the door. "There is nothing more to see here. I must send two telegrams immediately on our way back to Baker Street."

"What is, though? The important thing?"

"The blood pool. What was missing from it?"

I turned back to stare at the darkening pool. "What an ass I have been. The footprints." It dawned upon me finally, and I felt a twinge of annoyance I had not seen it sooner.

"It's all in the blood. Blood tells a story, if you're patient enough to observe. I remarked, as soon as she entered our lodgings that the blood was not hers, though I found it queer that though her blouse, face, and skirt were spattered, her boots were dry. Also, why would her blouse be wet if she had simply knelled down to take their pulses? Nothing about that story made the least sense."

I nodded. "If she was the murderer, why would she seek your assistance? Unless, of course, this is a case of amnesia or some sort of multiple personality disorder."

"A solid guess. But no," he said, flagging down and stepping into a cab.

"By Jove," I nearly shouted, "forget the telegrams!"

He raised his eyebrows at me.

"We've left Mrs. Hudson alone with a psychopath!"

"I think she is perfectly able to handle herself. She keeps a revolver between the hollowed out pages of Crime and Punishment on the bookshelf."

"She really is a remarkable lady."

A smile quirked at the corners of his lips. "Do you think I would hire a landlady any less than remarkable?"

"Now you will tell me she is some type of agent or another."

"She knows how to handle herself."

As we reached the telegraph offices, Holmes leapt from the cab and vaulted up the front steps. One telegram to the police, I rationalized. I was in the dark who the other was to.

As he flung his slender figure down next to me, I made my enquiry.

"A master of his art and one of the top ten criminals in this city. I have been after him for a time."

I opened my mouth to ask another question.

"Patience. All will be revealed soon."


	3. The Visitor

We arrived back at Baker Street to find the good Mrs. Hudson perfectly in her element, seated on the edge of Holmes' chair, across from our remarkable visitor. I found myself staring with unspoken trepidation at the fair haired, violet eyed beauty occupying the sofa.

"Mr. Holmes!" Cried Ms. Paltrow, rising to her feet in an instant, "What did you find?"

"Exactly what I expected to," said Holmes dryly. "But please do sit down. Do not cause yourself undue excitement."

"And what is it you expected to find?"

"The lack of something I dearly hoped to see, " answered Holmes, flinging himself down in the sofa and causing his dear landlady to flutter her arms like a startled bird and rise to her feet. He rested his elbow on the place previously occupied by Ms. Hudson and nestled his chin in the palm of his hand.

"I fear I don't understand."

Mrs. Hudson hastened to pick up the silver serving tray upon which Ms. Paltrow's teacup had rested.

"Don't trouble yourself," hastened Holmes. "Watson and myself will see to it later."

Our long suffering landlady had to muster all her will not to laugh, though she was a wise woman and gave a slight nod of understanding at her tenant's surprising request.

"Have you solved it?"

"I would not go that far," said Holmes thoughtfully. "But I am seeing the shape of it."

And the waters are dark, I wanted to add. It was impossible to suspect the coquettish Ms. Paltrow of anything approaching the bloodbath we had just encountered at the docks. I wondered if Holmes was coming around to this way of thinking, though I was certain he was still silently gathering facts.

"I fear the only course of action is to what. Ms. Paltrow, you can count upon hearing from me the instant things begin to clarify. Until then, put the matter completely out of your head, and into the hands of myself and Dr. Watson."

She frowned and then nodded assent. "Very well."

At Holmes' request she scribbled her address upon a sheet of paper so that we could be in touch should a development arise.

The second the door closed, Holmes leapt to his feet and was banging desk drawers near his chemistry set. He withdrew from one a little bottle of fingerprint powder, and a black, feathery brush, then began to dust both the teacup and the pistol in turn, until with a cry, he took the pistol over to his makeshift examining table and lay it under the most powerful lens he possessed.

"An exact match," he said, his excitement having not faded in the least, though I felt sick at heart as well as mind.

"I've let me sentimental feelings cloud my judgment again," said I, with a heavy heart. "Never would I have guessed that she was a murderess. She was too pure."

"I am not convinced of her guilt."

"What?" My heart beat faster, buoyed by sudden hope.

"You have just told me her fingerprints were on the gun and her story a lie. I don't see how even you can invent a solution in which Ms. Paltrow is innocent."

"Then you have very little imagination, dear fellow! I would have credited you with more, especially in light of those journal entries."

I made a mental note to myself to burn those journals as soon as possible...

"Her hand was forced..." I said slowly, "But Holmes, why would she come willingly to us in that case! Surely she would know you would tidy up the problem and find her a counterpart to the crime. Unless, of course, she was too shocked to do remember the course of events."

A knock sounded upon the door and my companion's features went very white. He nearly dropped the lens.

"Watson, pray tell me you still have your revolver."

I did.


	4. Shoot me instead!

Mrs. Hudson answered the door to a man in a black, billowing coat with sharp features and grey, darting eyes. A golden pocketwatch veritably sparkled from a hanging chain wrapped round his waist. I disliked him immediately.

"Mr. Phelps, do come in," said Holmes, gesturing to the sofa.

"I just got your summons, Mr. 'Olmes." His squinted eyes appraised my companion appreciatively.

"How kind of you to come straight away."

Our visitor did not take the seat offered him, but preferred to stand, peering at my friend as though he were an antiquated object of much interest.

"I am, of course, Sherlock Holmes, and this is my intimate friend, Dr. Watson."

Phelps turned his gaze upon me, and out of the periphery of my vision I saw Holmes put the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand together and make a twisting motion at Mrs. Hudson, as of one locking a door. Our landlady turned the lock in turn.

We were locked in with a madman.

I felt sweat beading on my forehead. Though I was certain, at the time, Holmes knew perfectly what he was doing.

"He's all for giving you a _hand_ as frequently as possible, isn't he?" said our oily visitor, and I felt myself blush to the ears at the suggestiveness he had put into that word.

"I am frequently here to help on a number of cases."

"Now, personally, I don't think there's a thing wrong with two gents being together in this day and age. Some people think it's damned odd, but I think it's a beautiful thing, yew know?"

"How long have you known Ms. Paltrow," Holmes marched on, oblivious to the innuendo in his statement.

"Oh, about three years I should say. Beautiful girl. The type I would spring for if women were my type. Now yew, Mr. Holmes, are the right thing. Tall, long, mysterious. It's a wonder the good doctor can't get enough of yew."

Without any sign of being stirred by his words, Holmes continued speaking. "You are the circus hyptonist, Mr. Phelps. How long have you held that position?"

"Again, three years. Since I threw in my lot with the circus."

"Why did hypnotize Ms. Paltrow?" said Holmes icily. "Were you too much of a coward to commit murder by your own hand that you had to commit murder by proxy?"

In one deft handmovement he had drawn a slim revolver from the pocket of his greatcoat.

I have stared down the barrel of a gun many times before that, and many times since, once even one held in my own unsteady hands. Yet, only one other time have I believed with such utter conviction that another human being meant to steal away my life, and that was when the killer Evans had tried to murder me in the tale of the Three Garridebs.

"Make a move, and he dies," said the snake.

I heard Holmes inhale sharply.

"I may just kill him anyway. Just for my own satisfaction. It wouldn't be as satisfying watching him die as to watch you _live. _Without him. Your entire life obliterated in seconds. Gone. How sad for you."

"Don't do this," said Holmes breathlessly. "Have reason."

"You've invited a lion to a lamb's den, my good man! Plead with me and I may change my mind."

"Don't!" Shouted Holmes. "No, don't. Watson, don't move."

"That's not good enough," said Phelps. "I'm not feeling any emotion there. On your knees, if you would. Really grovel about. Remember, a fraction's more pressure and his blood will be spattered all over you."

I watched, my heart beating so fast that the apartment wavered before my eyes, as Holmes sunk to his knees on the fraying carpet and looked up at his captor with such an expression of combined hatred and misery that my heart nearly shattered.

"Shoot me instead!" He cried, and Phelps laughed delightedly as the door burst open and Inspectors Greg Lestrade and Jones stormed into the room, their guns drawn.

Lestrade hit the hit the snake over the head with a club and he sank, delirious, and then unconscious, to the floor. His slack face lay a few mere inches away from Holmes, who still knelt on the floor, shaking.

Sherlock Holmes got to his feet, uttered a half insane bark of laughter, and then began to throw off his clothes. The great coat went first, followed by shirt, until he stood in nothing but his trousers and a leaden, bullet proof vest.

He abandoned the vest, then began, with shaking, uncertain fingers to rebutton the shirt.

"Wonderfully done, Lestrade," he commended, clapping the Inspector on the shoulder as he handcuffed Phelps and Inspector Jones stared in awe and fear at the thin, half delirious form of my companion, whose eyes could not seem to focus on any of us, but went from myself to Lestrade, back to Phelps, and then back to me again. "You did cut it rather close, though."

A sliver of ice cut into my heart. "You planned this," I said coldly. "It was all a set up?"

"Oh, don't take offense, Watson! It all went off particulary well. The code word for the Yard was "shoot me instead." They came as promptly as a pack of trained Russell terriers to the scene of a hunt. Even if they had not been quick enough, I was wearing my vest. All is well that ends well, as they say."

I turned my face away.

"Come now, Watson!"

"You could have told me."

"And risk that you would not act the masterful scene you just enacted. No, I could not."

"You treat me like a child sometimes! Leaving me in the dark, no hand to hold, no guidance."

Holmes sighed very slowly. "I did not believe one could be described as impossible, but you do fit the bill."

I swiftly turned and left him standing there, the buttons on his shirt in the wrong holes, at once at a loss for words.


	5. In the twilight years

As I reach the end of this peculiar tale, I realize that I may have acted childishly in my denouement of Sherlock Holmes. It is simply that is easy to grow frustrated when you are constantly just coming to grips with his methods, only to find out everything you've reasoned is wrong. I believe, if I may speak freely with all my heart, that I desired for the cry of shoot me instead to be entirely genuine.

Only now, in the twilight of my years, I do believe it was genuine. Sherlock Holmes would have died for me, just as I would have died for him a hundred times over during the years of our association.

Now that Holmes has gone to his grave, and I am but a shadow of my self, penning these last tales while I still remember them, I feel all right about writing things that Sherlock Holmes would thoroughly disapprove of. He would never let me publish the story of the circus murders while he was alive, saying 1) it was too sensational and 2) He did not like the hysterical way I went about describing the scene enacted to trap that awful snake, Phelps.

And that's how it ended. I did not visit Holmes until a fortnight after the arrest, so I did not learn of the details of why Phelps had hypnotized Ms. Paltrow to commit murder by proxy or what had happened to the woman.

Since I did not read of her impending trial in the papers, I assumed this was another one that Holmes swept under the rug.

Finally, when I could bear to stay away no longer, when I chanced to see my friend's slender, lonely form backlit by the light in the upper rooms of Baker Street, I knocked on the door and was invited into the sitting room.

"Watson!" He cried, as if there had been no bad blood between us. "Have a seat on the sofa."

It took him no more than ten minutes to wrap up the tale. Yes, he had not allowed Ms. Paltrow to be taken in by Scotland Yard. He had enough evidence to pin on Mr. Phelps to convict him of no less than half a dozen other murders committed by the masterful and horrifying act of his hypnotism. As for why he had commissioned Ms. Paltrow to commit murder by proxy, it all boiled down to the dwarf having had knowledge of the snake's insinuating nature of which he had shared with his dearest friend, the bearded lady. No doubt the chain would continue should someone not put an end to it.

And who better to do so than the charming, malleable, Ms. Paltrow, who took to the suggestion and application of hypnotism more quickly than any of the others before her. She had come to, after the awful commitment of the murders, blinking and confused, surrounding by her friend's blood, with the false memory implanted in her mind that she had just stumbled upon them dead and crouched beside their bodies.

She sought my friend's help right away. It was a great kindness Holmes showed her to keep her secret safe.

That is the end of the whole affair except for one thing.


	6. A glimpse of my worth

t was October and the air was cooler as I turned down Baker Street, my feet carrying me there because some secretive part of my mind had already decided to go. I intended to see if he had any cases on, but mostly just to make sure that he was all right and that he was not mixing loneliness with cocaine and producing disastrous results.

He greeted my warmly.

"I am about to run off on an interesting errand," he cried. "Care to come along?"

I thought of my wife, who was probably just getting around to putting supper on, of the domestic bliss of dozing before the fireplace with my feet on the ottoman.

"Yes, of course."

"Very good!" He clapped me on the back. "We don't have much time to waste. They said our visiting window was only open for so long."

"Visiting window?" I echoed.

"I'll explain on the way." He seized his hat and was out the door, leaving me gawking after him.

"How odd..."

"We're going to try a little experiment," he explained in the cab. "I've talked to the inspectors and they've said it's all right. Honestly, I would have done it anyway without their permission. It is only too easy to steal a key from a prison guard."

"Steal a key from a prison guard!" I cried. "What are we up to."

"None of that. We are getting into prison the honest way. To see Phelps."

I must have paled at this statement because he rushed to reassure me. "Don't be afraid. He will cuffed the entire time."

"And what is the purpose of this?"

"I must see how he works," said Holmes, with a sparkle in his bright grey eyes. "I must see if I can be hypnotized."

"I highly doubt it."

"Perhaps then you will take the bait?"

"I will be more than happy to watch and add it as a footnote to the case."

"Very good!" He exclaimed. "Do you remember the case of the Devil's Foot, when we staged ourselves to test the drug even though I was almost certain it was a key factor?

I nodded.

"This is again my Devil's Foot. I have to make certain one hundred percent certain of my hypothesis that Phelps posseses the ability to hyptonize his subjects."

"I somehow have a difficult time picturing him getting to you."

We rode in silence the rest of the way to the prison, a formidable structure of old bricks with bars shielding the windows, the feeling of despair palpable even at a glance. Holmes spoke briefly with one of the guards and we were lead down a narrow hall with cells on the left and right that smelled of mildew and its human occupants.

Phelps was sitting in a chair in the corner of his cell, alone. When he saw Sherlock Holmes he spat on the floor. His hands were, thankfully, handcuffed in front of him.

"Do I have to do it?" asked Phelps spitefully to the pudgy guard that stood next to Holmes and myself.

"If you want your supper, yes," the guard replied, then unlocked the door and led us into the snake's cage.

"Why do you want this?" Phelps glared at my companion. "Yew've already had me socked away. What good can it do yew?"

"Curiosity. I enjoy seeing a trick done well," replied Holmes, pulling up the spare chair that had sat in the corner across from the pitiful plank of a bed and sitting down. "Work your magic."

"I don't have my magic wand," he said caustically.

"I brought you this." Holmes held out his pocket watch, then turned to the guard. "Uncuff the man!"

"I don't see how that's a good idea..."

"Do it!"

"All right, Mr. Holmes."

The key slid into the handcuff lock, there was a click, and then Phelps was free. I felt my muscles tense in anticipation.

He did not move from the chair, but took the pocket watch Holmes had offered.

"Now close your eyes, and listen to my voice. You're going down a set of stairs, do you see them. I want you to count them in your head, 1, 2, 3. At the bottom of the stairs is the ocean, under a sky full of stars. When you get there, you're going to float on the waters. Now, you are stepping down the first stair. Another step."

My companion obediently closed his eyes.

Phelps rattled on. "You are on the tenth step. You're getting tired, your legs can't support you any longer. You begin to feel dizzy. You want to be at the bottom of the stairs, to feel yourself floating on the ocean, the water lifting your tired body up. Can you feel it, your legs beginning to drag?"

Holmes nodded.

"Twentieth step," said Phelps after a beat. "There are five more steps to go. You smell the ocean now. You can see the waves lapping at the bottom of the staircase. When you look up, you see the sky blanketed with all those stars. Pinpricks of light all above you, shining down on you."

"You're at the bottom of the stairs now. The ocean laps at your feet. You wade in to your knees, then lay on your back. The sky is velvet above you. Watch the stars twinkle out of existence. All you hear is my voice. Guiding you, telling you where to go. Nod if you hear me."

Holmes nodded.

"When you open your eyes, look at the watch. Mark it's progress back and forth with your eyes. Open your eyes."

Holmes opened his eyes slowly, as though groggy. He tracked the watch's movement back and forth as it swayed gently. How could he stay relxed when we shared a cell with a killer?

He let Holmes track the watch's progress for about two minutes, then instructed him to close his eyes again. "Listen only to the sound of my voice. Answer my questions. What is your name?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Why have you come here?"

"I wanted to...an experiment."

"How old are you?"

"I am 47, coming on 48."

"Your friend is dying. He was shot through the chest by one of Moriarty's henchmen."

I watched in horror as the firm lips shook with the wave of horrors expressed inwardly.

"W-Watson! Look at me, I've got to staunch the blood."

"I'm right here, Holmes!" I cried out. I reached out to pat his arm but the look the snake gave me was so venomous that I withdrew.

_Monster._

"Oh, that's no good. He's bleeding out, dying."

"Damn it all, man! We need a hansom. Help! Stay with me..." He took a ragged breath. "Help me load him in, man. Can't you see, we've got to be quick."

"Oh, no good Holmes. There's so much blood. It's soaked through his shirt. I'm afraid there's nothing you can do to help him. What a pity."

"That's enough!" I cried out. "Look here!"

"Watson, no. Please. No. Watson, listen, the hospital's around the corner. Open your eyes. Look at me, man!"

"His chest isn't rising anymore. Watson has died. Such a pity."

My friend gave a single, inarticulate cry and sunk his head silently to his breast. "A thousand apologies," he whispered. "Please forgive me, Watson. It's too late, but do that last thing. Forgive me, please."

"He can't forgive you, man!" Hissed Phelps. "He's dead. Just a sack of bones and flesh lying in your arms. And it's your fault."

"You monster!" I shouted. "Holmes! Come out of it!"

"W-Watson, I never deserved your friendship. You gave it to me anyway. My only friend..." He buried his face in his hands and I watched the silent shaking of his shoulders in a moment of grief that I felt was not meant for my eyes. It was too painful to bear.

I began to shake Holmes' shoulders, but it was Phelps' voice that rose him from the hypnosis.

"You stand and walk out of the pool. Begin to ascend the steps." Phelps walked him through the steps.

"Open your eyes, Sherlock Holmes!"

I was thankful, when he withdrew his hands from his face, that he had not been crying, for I would not stand for the sight of him completely adrift and broken down. His face was quiet dry, though more palid than I had ever seen it.

"Are you feeling all right?" I asked.

"Watson!" He jerked his head to look up at me, and I saw that his eyes were not dry, but brimming with unshed tears for my own imaginary death. "Hallucinations are the first step on the ladder to madness...What hospital am I in?"

A single tear leaked from the corner of his eye and rolled slowly down his cheek. My heart ached.

I ducked my head. "I'm afraid you have to endure my company a bit longer. We are in prison, Holmes. And Phelps has just hyptonized you."

I looked up quickly, trying not to see that single tear, and everything it represented. A whole life of service to see a glimpse of my worth.

"Indeed!" He said, a bit dazed, wiping absentmindedly at his cheek. "I don't cry...Never," he said slowly.

"Don't you?"

"No!" He said sharply. "These damned places are awash with eye-watering foulness."

He rose to his feet, a blush coming into his face. "I congratulate you most sincerely, Phelps. You are the master of your art."

The snake smiled slyly as the guard led us out of the cell.

"Don't write this on down, Watson," Holmes hissed. He threaded his arm through mine as we ambled down the corridor. "I think this is one your public can do without."

"As you say."

"I mean it."

"When have I disappointed you in my writing career? You have a secret fondness of my stories."

"Ah, that's the spirit! Good old Watson. He always soldiers on, believing what he wants, contrary to all evidence. It's really a very fine quality."

And that is the story of Ms. Paltrow and the snake, and how Holmes was made to believe an improbable thing. If my readers should be amazed at the sentimentality, I should say there were hidden depths to my friend they never properly explored.

I do miss him terribly.

FIN.

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